Violin
by BBCRULES
Summary: Violin's POV. John's letter to the Cardiff Violins prompted this story. My first attempt of personification. Please let me know what you think. Thanks for reading.


I found John's letter to Cardiff Violins; he was thanking the shop staff for recommending the perfect violin for his flatmate, Sherlock. It prompted this story.

EVERY NAME is fictional, of course. Thanks for reading.

* * *

It was another Monday, the day that nothing, good or bad, would happen. The violin in the front showcase stared outside: the rain hadn't stopped but finally turned into drizzle, and the sky was pale grey.

_I hate this moisture, so damp. Look at my strings. They are all loose now._

The violin pouted and yawned. Two people, the shop's owners came into its view. Cécile was a blonde, tall woman who could play the cello and the guitar. Chris was a short ginger haired man who could play the trumpet. They seemed to argue about a customer who was to visit soon. It sounded like the customer was very picky. After minutes of arguing, they tossed up for it: the man lost and had to deal with the customer.

The shop door creaked open: the bell rang loudly. The violin stared at the two men curiously. One with dark hair was rangy and tall, and was wearing a dark coat and a navy scarf in the middle of June. The other, shorter and blonde, was in the green jacket and jeans. Cécile and Chris looked at each other. She took out folders and picked up the phone, and Christ greeted the two men with a feigned smile.

"Good morning. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"This is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm John Watson. I had called you the other night."

"Oh, yes, yes…. Mr. Holmes wants to replace his old instrument. You said it was "blown" away?"

His voice was incredulous and the dark-haired man called Sherlock shrugged.

"It was an experiment gone badly."

"Experiment with a musical instrument? What kind of... Sorry, not my business."

Chris threw a questioning glance at the shorter blond bloke. Mr. Holmes' penetrating stare made him uncomfortable for some reason. His companion, John, rolled his eyes at and hissed,

"Don't, not here. No deduction whatsoever."

"I'm not doing anything. God. You always say no."

The doctor hushed, and turned his face to Chris.

"Well, it sometimes happens. Can we look around? Would you show us some violins?"

"Sure, sure. Upstairs, please."

Chris ushered them upstairs where rows of string instruments were hung or stood on the floor. Violins and violas were hung on walls while cellos and contrabasses were placed on their stand. The violin sighed. Since Cécile had placed it in the display showcase downstairs, it had barely met any of potential buyers. The violin wanted to vibrate its song and to get indulged in a duet dance with its bow.

_It drifted into the reminiscence of the long gone days. Mr. Grisham had cherished it so dearly. He always cleared rosin dusts off its body, replaced strings and pegs if necessary, and most of all, played beautiful music for people. Then suddenly he disappeared. The violin didn't know why but a few weeks later, Mrs. Grisham took it to the hospital where Mr. Grisham, shriveled and pale, was lying on the bed. His face beamed. He gently plucked the strings, yet all the complicated tubes hindered him from playing it. He caressed its body for a long time. The next morning he didn't open his eyes. The violin had to stay in its case for a long time and then found itself here in the shop._

It had hoped to meet another owner who loves violin and the music. However, for two months, no one had ever glanced at it; once a week, Cécile picked it up and wiped off the dust.

Upstairs the violins were played incessantly. It seemed the dark haired man had set his mind to test all of the violins in the store. There were mumbling sounds, and the violin could hear that Chris' patience was wearing thin. The violin lost the track of time, and dozed off.

"Oh, God. I don't know. Cécile will let you know other shops."

Chris yelled and ran downstairs, waking up the violin from its nap. The ginger-haired head bobbed outside: he was seething and cursing in his mouth. Cécile ran after him outside. It couldn't hear them but could see their faces right outside the showcase. Chris turned away and walked into the coffee place across the street. Cécile got in the shop, shaking her head. The two men walked downstairs: the shorter one turned red, while the taller one looked nonchalant. The woman managed to smile at the tall man.

"Well, you've deduced the history of each instrument you picked up. Also I don't know how you did it but identified the rosin dust from each bow that had previously been used. It seems we don't have an instrument that can satisfy your taste… Well, I can refer you to other shops in the neighborhood."

Cécile tore a blank page off her folder and started to draw lines to mark the location of other shops.

"Here is "Muse", a shop that specializes in the string instruments only. It's two blocks away…"

Her hand stopped when the tall man's baritone voice cut in. The violin couldn't believe it. His eyes were fixated on it.

"Can I check it out? That one, next to drums and a harpsichord."

Cécile picked it up and handed it to the detective. She said,

"Well, it is a used one. It was Mr. Rob Grisham's. He was a member of the Cardiff Orchestra and recently passed away. His wife sold it, and we've been displaying it here. The sound quality seems to be okay, but…"

Sherlock looked at the instrument carefully. The violin must have blushed if it had the capacity. The man's intent stare examined the sleek shiny dark brown body, the beautifully carved scroll at the end of the peg box, the well-used four silver-colored strings that sat on the fingerboard. It could say the man was a good violinist in the way that he tuned its four strings with his pale long fingers. Soon his right hand elegantly manipulated the bow up and down and produced very beautiful Bach, Aria on the G string. Sherlock closed his eyes and kept playing baroque music. The violin felt shy at the hand of a stranger and coughed out husky sounds, but soon began to sing beautifully.

After a couple of baroque music pieces, the violin stopped vibrating. The tall man nodded.

"I'll take this. I need extra set of the four strings, a couple of E strings, and a new rosin. The bow… I suppose the hair has to be replaced."

The violin was cleaned carefully and put into a new case. The bow with new hair, extra strings just in case, and a new rosin… The tall man didn't complain at the price that Cécile proposed. The case lid was shut, and soon the violin felt as if it were on ocean waves…

* * *

The new place was a very cozy, small room: it wasn't clean with all of the odds and ends scattered all over. The violin found that its new master loved playing it as much as its previous owner, Mr. Grisham. He cared for the violin, well-managed the instrument. The only difference was that the time of the day didn't matter to the new mater. Dawn, late in the evening, midnight... at times that most people sleep the violin had to overwork itself.

Most of the times the music was small pieces that had beautiful melodies. It often soothed the atmosphere between its master and the flatmate. Sometimes, the old lady called Mrs. Hudson applauded hard at the music. Mr. Holmes was very deft at the violin. The festive atmosphere was doubled when its owner played numerous carols for the party invitees at Christmas time. The violin was happy to see glowing faces of the invitees.

However, once in a while, the violin had to screech and squeal at midnight. Twice Mrs. Turner, the enraged neighbor, made a personal visit to complain. Once a friend of the flat residents, called Greg came and gave a stern warning: some neighbors had complained. Mr. Holmes seemed not to mind such remonstration. Some people could say it was close to "abuse" of the musical instrument, but the violin disagreed. It became quite fond of its new master, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He was as talented as Mr. Grisham.

It was spring again. When the case was open, the violin wondered what the occasion was. The master was boiling water in a kettle. He sat two sets of tea and a teapot on a tray. The violin hadn't seen its master cook anything for anyone. So it got very curious about what was going on.

Sherlock Holmes picked up the violin. Then Bach's partita No.1 filled the room as he moved the bow. Abruptly the bow stopped and the violin could say it had just heard creaking of the stairs. The music started again and the door creaked open. A man in grey suit was at the door, grinning. The violin felt unexplainable chills. Its master put it on the table and began to make tea. It barely understood the dialogue between the two men: the visitor must have owned some money to its owner. A very serious financial problem it must be. After the man left, the violin was put away. A glance at its master was alarming: he looked very serious.

* * *

Days passed. The violin stayed in darkness, wondering if its owner had forgotten its existence. It had lost track of time and drifted in and out of dreams. Then the case clicked open. Eye-blinding light fell onto the violin. It blinked a few times.

_Finally. Master. I've waited too long._

The violin wanted to dance and yell because soon its master would tune the strings that had loosened all over, and produce a beautiful music. The air felt refreshing; the light was glamorous, although it smelled rain.

Something was different. A different set of hands was caressing its body. It was his flatmate, John. He looked haggard, and pale. His untidy hair was matted into clumps. He was in his night gown. Something bad must have happened but the instrument didn't know what it was. It tried to find its owner but he wasn't in the sitting room. To its surprise, the room was smelly and dirty.

"Just leave it here. He can't take it."

The doctor growled. A young woman's calm voice objected. The instrument realized there was a stranger in the room, a young beautiful woman dressed up elegantly.

"John. Instruments need management. Mr. Holmes wants to keep it in his manor. You can't stop it. He is Sherlock's brother."

"Yes, and it's all Caine and Abel again."

"John."

The woman warned with a frown.

"I know I can't stop him. But…he had sold his brother out. Sherlock wouldn't have jumped off the building if…."

"John. He suffers like you."

"Anthea. Don't expect me to feel sorry for Mycroft."

"If you really don't want, then he will send a violinist every week for tuning. Sometimes he might visit the flat personally."

"Ugh…"

The doctor closed the case back. The violin wanted to protest, but of course no one could hear it. There were more mumblings but it didn't care. Too disappointed, the violin just stared the darkness blankly.

The next time its case was open, it found a stranger, another violinist, tuning the strings. For thirty minutes, she played various arpeggios. It was a new place, a large, luxurious, well-furnished room.

_Am I sold again? Is she my new master? Where am I? Where's the John bloke?_

It wondered but soon saw a familiar face, his master's brother. He was sitting on the sofa. It took for more than an hour before the stranger nodded and put down the violin.

The woman regularly came and played it, but never for more than thirty minutes. After the violinist left, the older brother always caressed the instrument and sometimes plucked the strings. His eyes looked sad or concerned.

* * *

Years passed. The instrument had no hope of seeing the happy audience again. It was abandoned by its master. Like Mr. Grisham, Sherlock Holmes must have gone.

Life was tedious and boring: a weekly tuning and arpeggios, the same monotonous melodies again and again. It desired to scream yet it couldn't. Once its E strong snapped cut in protest and the violinist had to replace the E string and tune more.

The violin had lost the hope of reuniting with its master, Mr. Holmes. It didn't matter who would play it. It prayed and prayed.

_ Anybody could have me. Just let me entertain people and the Muse._

It just wanted to serve its purpose: that was to give happiness and pleasure to the audience. The only audience was its master's brother, who looked old and sad.

* * *

It was summer again. All of a sudden someone picked up the case. It was being moved: the violin knew it as the case swayed and swayed, making the instrument dizzy and touchy.

The case clicked to open. The violin was blinded by sudden lighting. But, it knew something was different in the air as it was taken out of the case. It saw the long pale fingers. The touch was familiar. Before it realized, the hands started tuning and bowing.

"I need some practice, I suppose."

The baritone voice said. It was his voice. The violin looked around and found the familiar faces. John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, the older brother, and the woman that it had met long time ago, Molly... It was the old flat: the skull on the mantel piece, the bison skull and the yellow smiley on the wall. Most of all, it could see the high cheekbones and the emerald eyes.

Its master must have neglected practicing the violin. The bowing was not as powerful and smooth as it had been: sometimes it produced creaking sounds. The fingers pressing the strings were unstable and made little bit low or high notes, making the dissonant tunes. But it didn't matter. The violin sang as best as it could. It was happy.

* * *

Thanks to BBC Drama Sherlock, I've started getting a weekly violin lesson again. I had learnt it long ago, stopped for "ages" and now I'm learning it again. My heart is filled with happiness when my fingers press the strings(positioning is always hard) and my right hand moves the bow(Oh, please, don't forget the right grip). What a perfect instrument it is.

Thanks for reading. (My first attempt to personify an object). Your reviews are very valued:-)


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